


Say Something Snarky, Jump Out of a Helicopter, Punch a Fascist

by raisedbymoogles



Series: Robots Resist [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Transformers Generation One
Genre: Current Events, Gen, Minor Violence, fighting fascism, in the least subtle way possible, look everyone has their coping mechanisms and this is mine, resist, shameless catharsisfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 23:17:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16544216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raisedbymoogles/pseuds/raisedbymoogles
Summary: Captain America does what he does.





	Say Something Snarky, Jump Out of a Helicopter, Punch a Fascist

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing this on Election Day 2018, with no way of knowing how it's all going to turn out until tomorrow at the earliest b/c time zones. So this might be either a Triumphant Resistfic or the last gasp of the death of anything halfway decent about my country of origin. I guess we'll see.
> 
> For the TFs, this is the usual 'G1 set in the present day' schtick. For the MCU, this takes place a couple of years after Winter Soldier and cheerfully ignores all MCU films set after that.

_“Very very historic day… millions of illegal voters… most popular and handsome President in history… make America great again!”_

“Got ‘em eating out of his hand again,” Sam observed, the disapproving burr of his voice nearly lost in the beat of the rotors.

“Got an even bigger crowd calling for his head on a platter.” Natasha, by contrast, sounded downright cheerful, or as cheerful as she ever got outside of a gun range. It helped that she was right: the protest crowd surrounding the Lincoln Memorial far dwarfed the knot of sweaty racists and credulous knobs that made up the President’s usual flying monkey brigade. To the team’s relief, no _literally_ flying monkeys had seen fit to put in an appearance to the post-midterm rally: the Decepticons seemed to have largely abandoned their powerful human ally, much like half his cabinet.

The forces arrayed against him, by contrast, had only grown.

“Hot Rod’s ETA?” asked their third ally. Steve Rogers had stolen his old uniform from the Smithsonian again, leaving an apology note pinned to the mannequin in its place*; after so long seeing him in his preferred ‘old man shops at thrift store’ civilian style, Natasha and Sam almost expected the suit to look odd on him, satirical or cartoonish. The sleek suit fit him like a glove, as though the past two years had never happened. The only things different were the scruff of facial hair and the new tiredness in his eyes, a mirror of their own.

“ETA twenty seconds, Cap!” called their fourth ally: his eyes were hidden at the moment, but his _voice_ sounded as bright and eager as the day they’d met. Sam flashed a grin cockpit-wards and even Natasha quirked a smile.

“Right.” Steve pulled open the chopper door and grinned back over his shoulder. “One platter, coming up!”

With that, he jumped. Sam and Natasha shared a fond eyeroll.

The President’s speech - if his self-important meandering through the hellscape of his own mind could be dignified with such a word - was quite firmly interrupted by a _thud_ that shook the stage. The first three rows of red-capped fans shrieked and rocked back, causing a roil of chaos to build and build behind them; Captain America ignored them all, striding to center stage with his head held high and his signature shield on his arm. The subject of his stride gaped like a goldfish for a moment before appearing to rally; sweeping his arms out to welcome him to the ranks of Real Americans who worshipped his vision for America.

Captain America wound up with an extra flourish and socked the President in the jaw.

It was a stage punch, loud and flashy rather than hard; Steve was there to make a point, not to kill, but Donald Trump folded like a cheap deck chair. The crowd’s hold on order, already tenuous, broke completely, red hats stampeding for the exits amid shrieks and the odd cheer. The only people to stay were the Secret Service, rushing in only to halt mid-motion like startled horses. Protect the President - currently howling for blood from somewhere near the floor - that was their job, but these were men and women trained from childhood to respond to symbols of patriotism. How could they arrest _Captain America?_

Well, they probably could have, given a moment to get over themselves, but Steve wasn’t about to give them that kind of time and neither were his allies. In through an entirely inadequate barricade roared the fifth of their merry band: a red Lamborghini with flame decals and no driver, who flashed his headlights cheerily as he approached. “Blades says they got everything,” he announced as he pulled alongside the stage. “That was a great shot, Cap!”

“Thanks, Hot Rod,” Steve answered, moving to meet him. One of the Secret Service agents started after him, instinct warring with instinct; Steve turned back to him with a shrug that almost seemed sympathetic. “Sorry, but punching out fascists is pretty much my job.”

“Wait,” the agent protested.

Steve hopped into Hot Rod’s passenger seat, tossed them a casual salute. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I’ve got an appointment with a man in Brazil.”

And with that they were roaring off. Blades, with Sam and Natasha laughing in his cockpit, kept easy pace with Steve and Hot Rod from the air.

 

*Three weeks later, Steve received an envelope through the mail; inside was what was left of his very nice apology note, it apparently having been set on fire in several spots and jumped up and down on with extreme prejudice. “…honestly,” Steve remarked, “that’s fair.”


End file.
